Just concluded watching “Barcelona,” Whit Stillman’s 1994 (?) picture, the second in his trilogy. (The first was “Metropolitan,” the third was “The Last Days of Disco”) again. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen the picture now. At least six, but probably more.
Back when “Metropolitan” came out, somebody (probably Vincent Canby -- that would make sense, although it may not be accurate) compared him to Woody Allen, and that’s kind of accurate, or at least there are rough but appreciable analogies between them: there are moral considerations bedeviling their characters, there’s a lot of dialogue; it’s beautifully crafted, eminently quotable and more often than not, both writer/directors’ characters say things we would like to have the presence of mind to say in similar situations. But there are differences. Where Allen tended -- at least through the middle of his career -- to split his artistic aspirations between funny, sharply observed romantic comedies that also served as a kind of anthropology of a certain stratum of Manhattan society and heavier, dead-serious pictures such as "Interiors" or "Another Woman," Stillman showed himself as somebody who wanted to get those two things into the same picture: the sharply observed elements of the human comedy together with pretty serious emotional territory, although more often in situations where moral quandaries were determining romantic conduct and outcomes. And there was the wistful aspect to Stillman’s work that was absent in Allen’s movies. The young people in “Metropolitan” have convinced themselves that they’ve just arrived at the party moments too late . . . which is funnier because the whole movie is about what happens after they leave the parties they’re ostensibly getting together to attend; they frequently eulogize the fading world they inhabit, lamenting the fact there won’t be many -- or any -- more orgy weeks or debutante seasons soon, and about how the whole “UHB” -- “urban haute bourgeoisie” -- is doomed.
“Barcelona” moves that further, with the Boynton cousins, Ted (Taylor Nichols) and Fred (Chris Eigeman) in a kind of moral/familial conflict and tension, played out in the conflict of sexual politics, moral/romantic questions, and politically motivated violence. Again, a world or moral framework is collapsing or fading or giving way. In the case of Barcelona, it’s the Cold War, which is just about to end, and although it’s never explicitly stated, the picture is suffused with the knowledge that all the pegs and benchmarks and points of the moral and political compasses are disappearing. Every scene in the picture is telling, the performances are brilliant and the writing is tremendous.
Another few years went by, and along came the equally brilliant “The Last Days of Disco,” the story of which occurs between those of “Metropolitan” and “Barcelona.” Once again, a terrific story, a brilliant balance between the internal, moral conflicts and the larger, social and legal ones. And since then, what? Stillman bought some time with the novel of “The Last Days of Disco,” which was entertaining and well-crafted enough. But for Stillman, it almost seemed like a step backwards -- and that’s not something I say lightly. I’d think that in a lot of ways it’s tougher to write a novel than make movies -- although it’s probably easier if we mean “making movies” here the way Stillman makes them, writing, producing and directing. The novel did offer more insight into some of the characters -- most notably, obviously, Jimmy Steinway, the dancing ad man. But the movie offered insight into the character of the social scene, the milieu (for want of a better term) and the differences between the changes people thought were happening in social mores and the unchanging, universal elements that are remarkably resistant to change. There’s another point of conflict. And once again, we’re dealing with a subculture or a world that’s disappearing: it’s the last days of disco, remember. And the opening title card sets the time as “the very early eighties.”
The appreciation for Stillman’s work is sincere, but edged with selfishness. Why hasn’t he kept going? There was talk of his writing and directing a picture called, I think, “The Red Azalea” about the Cultural Revolution in China. But for whatever reason, that never seems to have happened. And there were directing stints on “Homicide: Life on the Street.” But what else? An d why not? It doesn’t seem unreasonable to think that there could have been other, more practical parallels with Woody Allen. The budgets for Stillman’s pictures must be pretty modest and reasonable. They can’t have been expensive to make, at least compared with some of the bloated swords and sandals historical epics that seem to have rolled by . . . okay, I can only think of two: “Troy” and “Alexander the Great.” What I can’t think of is why anybody would want to sit through either one. In the first instance, you’ve got Brad Pitt woefully miscast as an ancient Texan warrior fighting bravely to affect a British accent so the proceedings will seem more “historical,” and the other is directed by Oliver Stone, whose last not-entirely-unwatchable movie was . . . well, “JFK” was execrable revisionist/paranoid twaddle, and has there been anything since then that anybody would have bothered renting?
So how come Woody Allen comes out with a picture every fall almost as reliably as Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and Whit Stillman seems to be on a once-every-five years schedule? Stillman has said he writes slowly, that it takes him a lot longer to get a screenplay he’s satisfied with than it seems to take anybody else. And his directing and producing the pictures probably adds to the amount of time it takes to get them made. But still, from a purely selfish perspective, it’s way too long since there’s been a Whit Stillman movie, even allowing for the established five-year interval between pictures . . . unless, of course, one is imminent and I’m just not aware of it.
I always thought that if ever anybody were going to adapt any of Salinger’s work for the movies, Stillman would probably be the best choice. Hey, now I’m really reaching. And why not? If Stillman isn’t going to make any movies of his own screenplays or stories, then why shouldn’t we look for material he can work on? Not that anybody’s going to let any movies get made of anything J.D. Salinger has written, at least not while Jerome is alive. And I’m sure there’s some fearsome codicil made out of pig-iron and welded onto his will specifically prohibiting any literary executors from selling the movie rights to his work until . . . well, probably ever.
But, what the hell, Whit, why not drive up to New Hampshire and lean on Jerome? There might be enough similarities between your esthetics and the characters you’ve created that you could make it happen.
Then again, the night before watching “Barcelona,” we watched “Withnail and I,” and what else has writer/director Bruce Robinson done since making that in 1986? What else has he needed to do? And maybe that’s the way it is with Stillman. Having made “Metropolitan,” “Barcelona,” and “The Last Days of Disco,” what else does he have to do?
